


It Smells Like Rum in Here

by allowaykirk



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Deviation From Canon, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hilarity ensures, Humor, Light-Hearted, M/M, Merlin's a bit of an idiot, first meeting alternative, stupid fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5333390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allowaykirk/pseuds/allowaykirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Season 1 Episode 1, Gaius mentions how Merlin needs to find paid work. Well, let's imagine that Merlin didn't meet Arthur Pendragon that faithful day, and so all that with the witch-killing and promotion-receiving didn't happen.</p><p>In this case, Merlin works at The Rising Sun, Camelot's best-known tavern. It's a busy night, the kitchen's running behind, and Merlin's swamped with tables. When an arrogant hunter and his band of hanger-ons try to push their way into the tavern, Merlin lets his frazzled nerves get the better of him, and ends up in a whirlwind of confusion, adventure, and romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Impressions are Important

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt is form HERE: http://themultifandomnerd.tumblr.com/post/113819364961/rivalry-to-romance-aus  
> "You come to the restaurant I work at and choose me as your waiter(ess) every time just to annoy me and I can’t do anything in retribution or I’ll get fired AU"  
> Title is from the Straight No Chaser song "Who Spiked the Eggnog"  
> I do not own Merlin, Arthur, of any portion of BBC Merlin, I just enjoy writing about their antics
> 
> Warning: contains alcohol and lots of swears

“MERLIN. WHERE ARE YOU.”  
When Gaius said that I had to find paid work, this wasn’t really what I had in mind.  
“Coming, sir!” I yelled, trying to lift the platter of chicken over the crowd of drunken farmers and visiting merchants. Fridays were always busy in the tavern, but tonight the whole building seemed to thrum with energy. Noise battered my ears, and elbows jostled me as I fought through the masses.  
Once I’d delivered the chicken, I darted over to Elis, the needled innkeeper. Immediately, me clapped my shoulder and dragged me over to the corner, where he could yell at me without embarrassing the tavern.  
“What took you so long?”  
“It wasn’t my fault! With the crowds this big, the kitchen’s having trouble keeping up!”  
“I need you to step it up tonight—“  
“You mean work in the kitchen?” If this was what Elis was suggesting, I guess he’d never tasted my cooking before.  
“Whatever you can! Hopkin’s taken to the drink—I found him a mess in the back, had to send him home. You and Judd are the only servers we’ve got tonight, so you better be on your toes!”  
“Yessir,” I said, and he shoved me back into the mess.  
It hadn’t been more than a moment before Judd squeezed his way out of the thick, looking panicked. “Merlin—there’s a group here—a big group—I’m swamped with the gamblers, I need you to cover for me!”  
“Judd,” I hissed.  
“Please, I’ll—I’ll wash the dishes tonight!”  
That offer made me reconsider.  
“Fine,” I said. “But next weekend you’re taking the parties.”  
Judd cracked a grin. “Or Hopkin.”  
We laughed, but there wasn’t much time for dawdling—I could already see the crowd of new customers in the doorway.  
"Hello? Table for ten!"  
I rolled my eyes and fought through the throng. As I got closer, I let out a groan. Hunters—big, burly men fresh out of the forest. They’d want round after round of mead, and my arms were already aching at the thought of how much food I’d have to carry over.  
But I still plastered a smile on my face and stepped up. “How may I help you?”  
One member of the group stepped forward, but I would have already pegged him as the leader. Everyone in the party was staring at the back of his head, waiting for him to give a command. He stood with his legs wide, arms crossed, unashamed of the amount of space he was taking up. I was stuck on the edge of the crowd of customers, and had to stand next to a couple of jostling arm-wrestling idiots. And this random hunter strolled in like he owned the place?  
I immediately disliked him.  
The man cast a haughty look over the bustling tavern and drawled, “Well, you can start by clearing a place for us to sit.”  
Smug hunters. I was liking this group less and less.  
Maybe it was the stress. But something about this bloke’s smarmy grin had gotten under his skin. And I wanted to wipe it off of his face.  
We had plenty of customers here. We could afford to piss off a couple.  
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir,” I said, still grinning sunnily. “You see, it’s not custom to kick our customers out to make room for new ones. Especially for a big-headed bloke like you—that’d take ages.”  
The whole party oohed at the comment, but they didn’t look disheartened. Shoulders were shoved, as if they were expecting a fight.  
Their leader, though, looked a little confused. Then he smirked.  
“What’s your name?”  
“Merlin.”  
“Merlin…I take it you’re new to Camelot?”  
My heart seemed to tumble in my chest. How had he known that?  
“What makes you say that?” I asked uneasily.  
“Oh, no reason—I’m Art, by the way,” the man replied, his smirk growing. His cronies were chuckling.  
I gave him a sneer of my own. “Good name—it fits you.”  
He snorted proudly, as if he’d come up with it himself. “You think so?”  
“Yea. You know if you mix up the letters, you spell rat.”  
This wiped the smirk off his face. For a moment, he just stared at me, mouth slightly opened. The entire hunting party was silent.  
“Well now, with a face like that, you look more like a fish.”  
He shut his mouth promptly. “Well, I was just a little shocked that a simple peasant like you knows how to spell.”  
“You’re easily shocked by a lot of things, it seems,” I shot back.  
Art laughed, the great roaring kind that reverberates throughout the room.  
I heard chatter die down behind us.  
Art clapped me on the shoulder roughly. “It would seem so, Merlin.”  
“Arthur?” I heard Elis’s voice, and turned. He was staring at us, aghast.  
The entire tavern was staring at us.  
“Oh, don’t worry, just a fool running his mouth!” Art—Arthur, apparently—tweaked my ear. He turned to Elis, whose mouth was still wide open. “I see you have plenty of patrons tonight, I shan’t bother you now. But don’t worry, I’ll be back tomorrow night—and here’s something for your troubles.” He tossed a gold coin to Elis, who just stammered until he ran out of breath, then nodded vigorously.  
Arthur clapped my chest so hard my knees buckled. “And you, Merlin—I’d like you to serve me tomorrow night.”  
“Oh,” I drawled sarcastically. “There’d be no great pleasure.”  
Arthur smirked at me. “I look forward to it.”  
And with that, he and hi lackeys were gone, strolling down the road laughing and joking, their voices ringing out in the night air.  
“Merlin,” Elis said faintly. “What’ve you done?”  
“Told off a prat, that’s what,” I said, though I was still a little confused.  
Elis’s face was curling in horror. “Don’t—you’ll be put in the stocks if he hears that!”  
“Why? He heard a lot worse before.”  
Elis groaned. “Merlin—that was Prince Arthur.”

It was funny, really. How adding one innocent word—Prince—before one innocent name—Arthur—suddenly made my heart thump madly in my chest.

My mind spun. I raced for an explanation, but I didn’t have one.  
All I could say was, “Shit.”


	2. But Second Impressions are Even Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur said he'd be back the next night, and a knight must be true to his word. His run-in with Merlin is the talk of the town, and everyone in town--particularly Merlin--is anxious to see what'll arise.
> 
>  
> 
> Warning: contains alcohol and swears. Like, a buttload of swears. Also mentions puking.  
> I do not own BBC Merlin, I just like messing up his fictitious life in different ways.

At first, all I could say was “Shit.”  
That’s what it was, really. The social equivalent of standing in a pile of horse muck, with no good explanation of how I got there.  
Only I would be able to not recognize the crown prince of Camelot…and then insult him.  
To his face.  
Several times.  
But, with time—as I came out of my initial shock—“shit” became “fuck” and “fuck” became “God fucking dammit Merlin why’d you have to lip off to the fucking crown prince of Camelot you fucking noodle?!”  
Because the crown prince of Camelot was an absolute asshole, that’s why.  
“Absolute disrespect for waiting staff,” I tried to tell Gaius that night. “You should have seen him in action, Gaius, you would’ve done the same!”  
Gaius cradled his head in his hands. “Merlin, I promised your mother I’d look out for you! And what do you do—you insult the future king.”  
“I didn’t know it was him,” I said, a little helplessly. “How was I supposed to?”  
“Merlin, you already have your secret to consider,” Gaius hissed. “You don’t need to give the Pendragons another reason to throw you in jail.”  
The thought made me feel queasy. My anger dissipated into a sickening spread of fear, crawling across my skin.  
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.  
Gaius just pursed his lips. “Merlin, I’m not angry with you—I’m angry with your mouth—“  
“That’s part of me, Gaius.”  
“I’m a physician, Merlin, don’t try to school me about anatomy. What I mean is—you have a lot to hide, and you’d do well to keep yourself out of trouble! And sassing patrons—whether they’re princes or not—is sure to get you noticed.”  
“Well, I learned my lesson,” I groaned. “Arthur will be coming back—and he wants me to serve him.”  
“You’d better study that book tonight,” Gaius said darkly. “I think there are protection spells in there somewhere.”  
I flopped down onto the bench across from him. “Is he really going to beat me up?!”  
“He’s a knight of Camelot, Merlin. That’s just how they work.”  
I studied the protection spells until the wee hours of the morning, but a stupid part of me hoped that Gaius was just trying to spook me with that punching nonsense.  
I soon found out he wasn’t.  
Gwen came into The Rising Sun early that morning, her bowl of porridge in one hand, and a satin ribbon in the other.  
“Merlin! When I heard the townspeople talking—I didn’t realize it was you—but then Morgana—“  
“Morgana?! Arthur’s bragging to everyone, is he?”  
“Well, not exactly,” Gwen said with a wry smile. “His ego was a little bruised, seeing as you didn’t recognize him. Morgana heard it from the kitchen staff, and was bugging Arthur about it all through dinner last night.” Her smile faded quickly. “But Merlin, what’ve you done?! Is he really coming back?”  
“That’s what he said. I was hoping he’d forget, but if Morgana’s teasing him…”  
“He won’t let it die,” Gwen finished grimly. “Oh, here—“ she slammed her porridge down on the table and began to tie the ribbon around my arm, right over my bicep (or where it should be, if I had one, anyways).  
“Ow! That’s too tight!”  
“It’s a gift,” she said, loosening the knot just a bit. “From the Lady Morgana.”  
I frowned. “She wants me to…wear her ribbon?”  
“As a token of good luck,” Gwen said, and I could tell she was hiding a smile. “I believe her exact words were, ‘Thank you, Merlin, for insulting my imbecile of a brother.’”  
“Well then, at least someone in the castle’s on my side. Tell her to put a good word in for me to Uther, so he won’t send the guards after me.”  
“Oh, don’t be silly—“ At this, my heart leapt at the distant sound of hope. “—Arthur will want to take care of you himself, he wouldn’t send guards to do it.”  
Well, that hope was squandered good and flat. Gwen must’ve seen it on my face, because she quickly added, “Oh, I don’t mean it like that, Merlin! It’s just—Arthur’s future king, he’s got to fight his own battles if he wants respect. But he can’t really hurt you—princes can’t just go around beating up random peasants.”  
“I’m no random peasant,” I said darkly. “I called him a rat.”  
Gwen snorted. “He’s more of a bull, really. When he’s angry, anyways—his face scrunches up.”  
“And I bet he fights like a bull, too!” I sat heavily on the barstool. “Gwen, I know he can’t kill me, but…he’ll certainly beat my head in, won’t he?”  
Gwen pursed her lips, trying to think of something to say—something that was comforting, but wasn’t a lie.  
Eventually, she just said, “He’ll lose interest eventually.”  
I still prayed that he’d lost interest already—that some training fiasco or princely duty had distracted him from Morgana’s taunts and the memories of my words.  
No such luck.  
The day went by slowly, achingly. I tried to stay busy with work, but thoughts scrambled around in my head, and butterflies crowded my stomach. It was barely sundown when the Saturday crowd came in, but even the crowds weren’t enough to push all the nervous thoughts out of my head. I recited those protection spells in my mind, over and over, in between memories of the summer when Will had tried to teach me how to fight.  
“Now swing at me—No, Merlin—Merlin, that’s not even how you make a fist! Goddammit—“  
We soon agreed that I’d better stick to his magic when in a fight.  
Just as I was trying to remember how to properly make a fist, Judd walked over, and his face said it all.  
“Destiny’s calling, mate,” Hopkin said, clobbering my shoulder in what I’m sure he meant as an amicable gesture.  
I took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the bar. My knees were shaking, much to my shame, but it was taking all my effort not to run out the back door.  
Elis came over, with a face like thunder. “He’s wearing chainmail,” he said bluntly.  
“God,” I swore, clinging to the bar for support. “Elis—Elis—“  
It hit me, again. The sheer force of my stupidity.  
I’d talked back to the crown prince of Camelot. I called him bigheaded. I called him a rat.  
“And he’s come for you…”  
I nodded, finishing what Elis couldn’t say. “To beat me up, arrest me…chop my head off, even! What am I to do, Elis?!”  
“Serve him well, like your life depends on it,” Elis said, and pushed me into the fray.  
It does, you barking idiot, I thought to myself, but bit it back down. My mouth had gotten me in enough trouble already. I needed to hold my sass back if I was going to keep my head on my shoulders.  
I could see his silhouette at the door, blond hair and chainmail glittering at the edges. My knees were positively knocking.  
Stay cool, Merlin. You’ve got protection spells.  
As if that was going to do much good against a mace, or the bars of a jail cell.  
“Good evening, sire,” I said, forcing a smile on my face. “I see you’ve kept your word.”  
“It’s in the knight’s code,” he said coolly. “Now will you please escort me to a table, or am I supposed to stand out here in the cold?”  
No one asked you to stand in the doorway, you absolute donkey.  
“Of course,” I said though my teeth, and led him to a table in the back corner. It he was going to drag me out by my ears, he’d have to get across the whole tavern.  
“How…quaint,” Arthur said, fingering the sad springs of pine and holly that were in the little jar at the table’s center.  
I bit back several responses to this—did he think flowers grew in the winter? Or perhaps that money did not grow on trees and the Sun had to funnel most of its budget towards food—and plastered a smile onto my face. “Does this seat suit you, sire?”  
Arthur fixed me with a dark look. “Don’t bother groveling, Merlin. It doesn’t suit you.”  
“Right then.” I wet my lips, my hands shaking a bit. “Well, if you’re here to revisit the, um, conversation last night—“  
“No, I’m here to admire the holly.”  
“—I just want to say that there’s no need to punish the Sun for it. So whatever you’re going to do, I’m going to ask you not to damage the place.”  
Arthur looked at me like I’d grown another head. “I have enough pity for these people—they put up with you on a daily basis! I won’t do in their tavern.”  
“Right then,” I said, a taunt smile across my face. “So I’ll get the food, all the rot—normal business front—and then you’ll bash my head in outside, eh?”  
“Excuse me?” Arthur fixed me with another look—something akin to disgust. “Merlin, what kind of barbaric place do you come from?”  
“Ealdor.”  
Arthur just blinked.  
“Farmland.”  
“Oh, I see. So you were raised slaughtering cows and sheep since you were wee, huh? That explains the fascination with violence.”  
“I did no such thing,” I huffed. “And you’re one to talk, with your big beefy knights and—and your chainmail!”  
A curious smile was spreading across Arthur’s face.  
“Did you really think I was going to do you in?”  
“You certainly seemed interested in it last night!”  
“And you still came to serve me? You’re braver than you look, Merlin.”  
“It’s my job,” I said bluntly. “In that case, if you’re not here to punch my lights out, would you please stop chattering? I have other tables to wait.”  
“By all means,” Arthur said, waving a hand, and I began to recite the menu.  
“There’s cod and rice, and then meatloaf—I wouldn’t get that one if I were you—and humble pie. And the usual mead, of course.”  
“Humble pie seems fitting,” Arthur said with a crooked grin.  
“Fine then.”  
“And a tankard of mead, if it isn’t too much for your twiggy arms to bear.”  
“Did you really come back to insult me more?” I groaned.  
Arthur laughed. “Am I really such an open book to you? Don’t worry, Merlin, I do have my reasons.” He gestured to the kitchen. “Now off you get.”  
Bewildered, I stumbled to the kitchen and grabbed the order, not even bothering to check into my other tables.  
“What’d he say?” Judd hissed.  
“He says he’s not going to beat my head in,” I whispered back, a little in shock.  
Hopkin just snorted. “He’s trying to get you when your guard’s down.”  
Judd, though, was craning his neck to look over the counter, and said thoughtfully, “He doesn’t look mad, Hop. He looks pretty happy.”  
“I think he likes the attention,” I grumbled, and carried the meal out.  
“Here you are, your highness,” I said, setting the pie onto the table. I longed to dump it unceremoniously, or—better yet—smash it into his face. But I wasn’t too eager to see how far I could push him.  
“What wonderful service!” Arthur crowed. “You must really be the best server at this tavern.”  
“Please stop,” I grumbled. “You clearly have no idea how to compliment someone.”  
“Maybe not, but I’ve heard compliments often enough,” he replied smugly. “I think I’ll have you serve me next time as well.”  
“There’ll be a next time? Wait—so this is what it’s all about?! You can’t punch my brains out, so you’re going to annoy me until I go stark raving mad?!”  
“Again, Merlin,” Arthur said blandly. “Your intellect is truly astounding.”  
“Listen, I said I was sorry—“  
“I don’t believe you did, actually.”  
“Well then sorry, dammit! But you know what?”  
“What?” Arthur asked, amused.  
“You were being a royal prat!” I knew I was getting riled up, but I was too mad to care. “I work here all day, cleaning and cleaning, and then lot like you stomp in and spill everywhere, and—and puke everywhere! And guess who has to clean that up? Me! And then you come sauntering in with your pack of goons, and you think that just because your dad’s got a fancy metal hat, you can shove out our other customers? I don’t think so!”  
“First of all, I don’t saunter,” Arthur said primly. “That’s how noblemen walk, Merlin. Hell, you could even do it, if your legs weren’t beanpoles. Secondly, comparing kingship to ‘having a fancy metal hat’—that’s undermining quite a bit of the job, now isn’t it?”  
“I wouldn’t know—it seems I’ll be swabbing the bar for the rest of my life, while lot like you drink mulled wine and shoot pheasants for fun!”  
“So you have some ambitions,” Arthur mused. “Well, that’s interesting.”  
“What do you mean by that?”  
“Nothing, Merlin—nothing a commoner like you need bother yourself with. Now, leave me to enjoy my food before it gets cold. Honestly, with all this yapping, I don’t know how you still have a job.”  
I spluttered, but he just waved his hand, and before I knew it, I was stomping off to wait my other tables, trying not to fume too visibly.  
I stalled to the point of rudeness—even waited long minutes after Arthur had finished his pie—but eventually Elis pushed me back out from the kitchen.  
“We don’t need this place blacklisted, boy!” He hissed, and flung me back into the mess.  
I dragged myself over to Arthur’s table. “How was the food, sire?”  
“Delicious,” he announced as I cleared the table. “Not a meal to be missed.”  
“Not a—oh, no,” I said, waggling a finger at him. “No, no—this—whatever sick kind of joke this is—is not going to be a regular thing.”  
“Ah, but you see, Merlin,” Arthur said cheerily. “That’s for me to decide.”  
“But—“ I spluttered. “We’re having different meals tomorrow night!”  
“Well, then, all the more reason to come back! I wouldn’t want to miss the new selection, would I?”  
I was positively fuming with rage—magic was nearly coming out of my ears, and it was taking a lot of effort to hold it in.  
Arthur just laughed and clapped my shoulder, then dropped a few coins into the tankard that was now gathered in my arms. “Well, yet again, Merlin—it was a pleasure. I look forward to tomorrow night.”  
“Wait—tomorrow night?!” I yelled, spinning wildly to see him moseying towards the door. “You’ll be back tomorrow?!”  
“With ears like that, Merlin, you’d think you’d learn to trust your hearing,” Arthur tossed over his shoulder. “Until then!”  
The door shut with a slam.  
I gawped at the door, rooted in the middle of the tavern floor as if I’d been stuck there with magic.  
“Well?” Judd raced over, Hopkin in tow. “What’d he say?”  
“Did he challenge you to a duel?” Hopkin asked breathlessly. “Is it to the death?”  
“He…” I turned to them, bewildered. “He said he’s coming back.”  
Hopkin scoffed. “Yeah, mate—to do you in.”  
“No, to eat.”  
“Yeah, your eyeballs, once he’s—“  
“Hopkin!” Judd yelled. “People are dining.”  
I just shook my head. “He…didn’t seem that mad.”  
“I told you so,” Judd said proudly.  
“Aye, and I told you, he’s biding his time.  
Maybe, I thought. But a strange feeling crept through me as I glanced back to the door—something just on the cusp of being—like a breath being held.  
Like something was beginning.


	3. Third Time's a Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur is sending lots of messages that Merlin doesn't seem to quite understand yet...until he does. Get ready for some dopey fluff, guys.
> 
> Warning: lots of swears, and brief mention of alcohol

Oh, something was beginning, all right.  
Arthur returned again on Sunday night, loud and boisterous with his compliments to the chef and the serving staff—namely, me.  
“This boy, Elis!” he crowed, clapping his hand on my shoulder. “Your best server, is he not?”  
“Um,” said Elis, because he didn’t want to lie to the prince.  
“I’m going to have to order that he’ll be my server whenever I come here—his skill is simply incomparable.”  
“Will you please stop?” I moaned. “People are staring.”  
“That’s the point,” Arthur hissed into my ear.  
After that, Arthur began to make his rounds on The Rising Sun. He came mostly on weekends—he was busy with princely duties and dining in the castle during the week, I supposed—but he made up for missed time when he came.  
“Usual table, Elis—and the usual server, if you would!” He would holler from the doorway, and the kitchen would fly into a flurry.  
“Don’t mess this up, boy,” Elis would warn me, waving his spoon madly in my face.  
“Oh please,” Hopkin would snort. “Merlin could shit onto Arthur’s plate and the prince would still come back.”  
Hopkin got a swat on the back of the head for that, but he did have a point. With each day Arthur came, I toyed with him—pressing his buttons more and more to see if he’d finally crack.  
It was dangerous, and a part of me wondered what the absolute hell I was doing. There was no doubt in my head that he could beat me into a pulp if he tried—and I still wasn’t convince he wouldn’t give it a go. But there was something about the whole situation that just didn’t make sense. I’d sassed him—embarrassed him in front of his subjects and friends—and he came back to the tavern chipper as can be.  
I just had to figure out why Arthur had come back—and still came back, again and again.  
“Well, here you are, sire,” I said one night, plonking his bowl unceremoniously onto the table. Soup flew out in chunks, splattering all over his front.  
But Arthur just mopped it off with his napkin, sipped a spoonful, and said, “Absolutely marvelous.”  
We traded insults, of course, but there was something amicable about it—almost affectionate.  
“Sorry for the wait, Prince Rat,” I said, sliding the tray of cheese over to him.  
Arthur looked up, bewildered but amused. “Merlin—with ears that big, surely you must have heard that I ordered the steak?”  
“I thought rats ate cheese,” I retorted.  
“And I thought elephants stayed out of Ealdor, but here you are, ears flapping and everything.”  
“My ears do not flap! And I’ll have you know that—that your ears are crooked!”  
“Really,” Arthur mused, leaning back and cocking an eyebrow.  
“Aye,” I spluttered, flustered. “Like—like an elves! Cocked back at an angle—I should’ve called you ‘bat’ instead!”  
“Ah, but a clever-clogs like you knows that there’s no B in my name,” Arthur replied coolly.  
“The B stands for..for…BESPAWLER,” I yelled.  
Arthur looked impressed rather than angry, which was not at all what I had been going for. “Another big word, Merlin! Do you know what it means?”  
“A dribbling idiot, that’s what!” And with that, I threw my hands in the air and flounced back to the kitchen.  
The pattern repeated, again and again. Arthur would come in, announce his presence, and I’d take his order. Over the course of dinner, we’d trade insults, but mine never seemed to rile him. I, on the other hand, got plenty riled.  
“Your face is the color of a tomato,” Judd would tell me as the front door shut.  
I would stand in the kitchen, fanning myself with the cold winter air at the window. “This is called anger, Judd! This is what happens to people who have to deal with the pinnacle of idiocy!”  
“They get mad horny, you mean,” Hopkin would add.  
By this point, I’d usually have my head fully out the window.  
Very dramatically, I vowed, “The day I fall in love with that git is the day hell freezes over and pigs fly, all in the same day.”  
I continued to poke at Arthur, though. Something inside me wouldn’t relent until I got to the bottom of why he came back, why it seemed he’d always come back, no matter what.  
I still wore the ribbon, of course—and practiced protection spells every morning. I needed all my luck wore when that idiot finally decided that the jig was up, and it was time to get revenge, knight-of-Camelot-style.  
I soon found out, however, that Arthur had a very different plan in mind.  
The night started out usually enough—Arthur had swaggered in, sat down in his usual spot, and watched me drag my feet all the way from the kitchen, a wide grin on his face.  
“Well then, sire,” I said. “I won’t keep you waiting—tonight’s plates are chicken and biscuits, and then beef stew. what’ll you have, then?”  
“What’ll I have?” Arthur blinked at me. If a person could blink archly, he did, just then.  
“For dinner, sire,” I said slowly.  
At this, Arthur smiled. “You, Merlin.”  
Now I blinked. “Excuse me?”  
Was this Camelot-talk for beating the shit out of someone? Because I was still not prepared. In fact, I didn’t think I’d ever be prepared.  
Arthur leaned back in his chair and gestured to the other side of the table, and suddenly I found myself sitting. “Well, don’t just stand there—excuse me!” He snapped his fingers at Hopkin, who jumped and nearly spilled all of the plates on his tray. “We’d like to be served—“  
I pulled his hand down onto the table. “What do you think you’re doing?!”  
Instead of answering my question, he just smiled softly. “Remember when we met? And you called me a rat?”  
“In my defense, you called me a peasant.”  
“That was after you called me a rat, mind you. But then you found out who I was.” Arthur grinned at me. “I bet you thought I was going to take you outside and throw you around in the snow.”  
“I—“  
“And then put you in the stocks.”  
“Well, I—“  
“And then arrest you.”  
“I mean—“  
Arthur was shaking his head. “I know you’re new here, but honestly, Merlin, what kind of prince do you think I am? I can’t just go kicking around every buffoon who spits out some insults at me! I have no desire to be a tyrant.” He huffed as if insulted, but I could see the corners of his mouth twitching towards a smile. “And besides, Gaius is our physician—I can’t just beat you up and have your guardian tend to my men, there’d be animosity.”  
“Wait, you mean—“  
“And I bet Morgana gave that to you, didn’t she?” Arthur gestured to the ribbon, then shook his head. “Honestly, Merlin, I don’t know what people told you, but I wasn’t going to smash your head through the tavern door.”  
“You weren’t?”  
“No, of course not! Do you’d think I’d come back time after time if I really was upset?”  
“So…” My mind was spinning. “Why did you come back, then?”  
“I told you, Merlin—it’s in the knight’s code,” Arthur smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. I tried not to notice how much muscle he flexed with this gesture. “I mustn’t go back on my word, even to a walking stalk of cauliflower like yourself.”  
“So you decided to beat me with insults,” I said dully. “May I remind you that you tried that on the first night—and it wasn’t too successful?”  
“As I said—I was simply shocked that a peasant like you could provide such intelligent conversation.”  
Hopkin hurried over, positively panting. “Yes sire, fast as I could—what will you—“ At this point, he noticed me, and gawped. “Merlin?! Why’re you sitting on your arse across from—“  
“I invited him to dine with me,” Arthur said smoothly. “We have many things to discuss.”  
Hopkin just continued to stare.  
Arthur made a smooth gesture at me. “Merlin, you first—what’ll it be?”  
“Um…beef stew, I guess. Just put it on my tab, Hopkin—Elis can—“  
“Nonsense, I won’t hear of it! Put his dinner under my name, Hopkin. And make that two beef stews—and two tankards of mead while you’re at it!”  
“Of course, sire,” Hopkin bowed quickly and high-tailed across the tavern, practically jumping over some of the patrons.  
“What is this all about?” I asked, slamming my hands on the table. “These past few weeks haven’t been enough for you?!”  
“Exactly,” Arthur said, eyebrows raised.  
I blinked.  
“Oh come on Merlin, you’re sharper than that.”  
I just gaped at him until he sighed. “I’ve always been prince of Camelot—people are expected to treat me with respect, even fellow court members. Most peasants wouldn’t dare to even breathe on me—and then you come along, full of biting comments!”  
“But you can’t beat me up,” I reminded him, a little desperately.  
“Merlin, how many times do I have to say this?! I don’t want to beat you up.”  
“Really? Because everyone in Camelot seemed to think so! Gwen did, Gaius did—Morgana gave this to me for luck!” I yelled, gesticulating wildly at the ribbon tied to my arm. “Your own sister thought you were going to do me in!”  
“Adopted sister,” Arthur reminded me. “We may have grown up together, but Morgana understands me like a fish understands a bird.”  
“Well, excuse me for not having so much faith in you, when everyone else in the town—who knows you better, I might add—thought you were going to bash my head in with a rock!”  
“I would never use a rock,” Arthur said, looking genuinely insulted. “How absolutely barbaric.” He shook his head. “And besides, these people—Morgana, Gwen, even Gaius to an extent—they’ve known me for a while, yes, but that doesn’t mean they understand everything about me. They have to treat me as prince foremost and person second.”  
“And you’re shocked that I don’t? And that’s why you keep coming back?!”  
“Finally, he’s got it,” Arthur yelled dramatically.  
“Well for fuck’s sake, mate, can’t you just hire someone to do that for you?”  
“There, that’s it—you just called me mate! You see? No one does it as honestly as you, Merlin!”  
“Lot of good it’s doing me—at this rate I’ll be gray when I’m 25!”  
“It’s a tough job, but no one can handle it better than you, Merlin.”  
“I have a job to tend to already , you know! And here you are, trying to distract me every night!”  
“Well, I apologize profusely for that,” Arthur said. At this, he reached for something at his belt and set a scroll on the table between us. “Go ahead—we’ve already established that you can read. If not, this has all been a horrible mistake.”  
Cautiously, I opened it.

Dear Marlin of Ealdor,  
It has been brought to my attention that you are a very rare case—a peasant in Camelot who can read. Prince Arthur himself has boasted of your talents and intelligence and has prompted me to provide you with this offer for a job at the Hall of Records in Camelot. Your pay will be 15 shilns each day, and work is from 9 to 5, with an hour break at noon for lunch. If you have any interest, please stop by the front desk and I’ll be sure to talk with you.  
Sincerely,  
Geoffrey of Monmouth  
Head Scribe of the Hall of Records

“Better pay, less hours—and you won’t have to wear that ridiculous apron!”  
“You…” I stared at the scroll, absolutely baffled. “…Got me a job? Another one?”  
“Literacy is a rare thing in the working class, Merlin. You’re wasting your talents here.”  
You don’t even know the half of it, I thought, my magic swirling inside me at the very thought.  
“But…I don’t understand,” I spluttered. “I thought you hated me!”  
“Hated you?” Arthur’s voice grew softer. “Merlin, do you really think I’d come back here again and again if I hated you?”  
“Well, aye,” I said sheepishly. My mind raced through the memories of our past encounters, trying to find a reasonable explanation for why Arthur kept showing up. “To annoy me, I suppose.”  
Arthur laughed at this, but it wasn’t an antagonizing laugh. It was soft and genuine, and sent spikes of warmth all the way to my fingers and toes.  
“Is that how things are done in Ealdor?” Arthur chuckled. “Merlin, listen—our banter has been the most honest conversation I’ve been privy to in a long time. I enjoy your company, really—why else would I have invited you to sit with me here tonight?”  
“And now you’ve gotten me another job,” I said, still a little stunned. “In the castle…closer to you—“  
“I didn’t mean it like that!” Arthur said, flushing. It was amusing, to see the darling of Camelot, the crown prince, flustered and stammering. “I just—it’s not everyday I meet a commoner that’s as smart as you—“  
“Gee, thanks.”  
“No, Merlin, that’s not what I meant—“ At this, he took my fingers in his, gripping them hard, and looked me straight in the eye. A funny feeling was running through my blood—a heat that spread under my skin like a fire. “Merlin, I like you. I think you’re smart and I think you’re wasting your time here at the tavern. And, I mean—it seemed to me, at least, that you weren’t particularly enjoying yourself.”  
He had a point. Elis complained on a daily basis about how if Gaius wasn’t his doctor, I would have been cast out and banned from the tavern forthwith.  
“I thought this new job may seem like something more your speed,” Arthur reasoned. “But if you don’t want to take it, I completely understand—“  
“I do,” I said softly.  
Arthur stared at me.  
I smiled at him. “I like reading. I’d love to work in the library.”  
“Well—that’s great, then!” Arthur cried, relieved. “You’ll go see Geoffrey, then?”  
“First thing in the morning,” I said.  
He beamed at me, and the fire burned beneath my skin.  
We continued our usual banter through dinner, but there was something different about it—insults were traded with fondness, and teasing was met with snickering. We were breathless from laughter by the time we were finished.  
“Well then,” Arthur said, ruffling my hair as he stood. “I guess I’ll be seeing you in the castle.”  
“Poor you,” I told him.  
He smiled and nodded. “Poor me, indeed.”  
He left his coins on the table, bid me goodnight, and walked out of the tavern, disappearing into the snowy road.  
I stared at the door even after it swung shut, wondering.  
It seemed, despite all reason, that I had become friends with the crown prince of Camelot. Close friends.  
At the word ‘close,’ heat bloomed beneath my skin. I quickly set to clearing off the table, trying not to think about the heat on my cheeks. But as I brought the dishes to the kitchen, I couldn’t help but look forward to my new prospects—to work in Camelot’s castle, to have better pay, better work…  
And being closer to Arthur—that certainly wasn’t a downside.


	4. What're You Doing Yuletide Eve?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gig at the library certainly has its perks, according to Merlin. Especially since it makes it easier for a certain tow-headed prince to visit him and distract him from his work.
> 
> Brief mentions of alcohol. I don't think there's any swearing in this chapter, though. I'm sure that'll change with next chapter, so take it while it lasts.

The job turned out to be everything advertised, and more.  
Geoffrey was a wonderful boss—he let me go early when it snowed, and sometimes he even brought me a cup of hot cider when I got a lot of work done. And he loved books with a passion—you could hear the wonder in his voice whenever he talked about a certain old codex he hadn’t read in a while.  
“And this one—oh!” He’d gush, and shake the book merrily in my face. “Read it when I was wee, I did, and I’ve never forgotten it!”  
He was eccentric, to say the least, but I didn’t mind. He was a pleasant person, and that was what mattered most.  
The work was loads better than at The Rising Sun, too. Instead of sweating out over a hot oven and being yelled at by Elis, I sat in the quiet warmth of the library, tucked by the fireplace and copying old texts. It got quiet sometimes, but every now and then royals would burst in, and they’d make quite enough of a scene.  
When I was travelling to Camelot, I fancied that I might catch a glimpse of some of Camelot’s royal court. I never expected to see this many of the nobles, though—or this often.  
Dukes and barons and various knights were often swinging by to say hello to Uther. They were all “second-cousins twice removed” or “his uncle’s cousin’s grandson” or something—and all of them wanted to see Uther’s vast library while they were in town. Few kings had such an expansive collection, and they always made quite a squeak when they came through the doors.  
But it was even more shocking was when the Pendragons themselves came in. Once, Uther came through the doors, the tails of his cloak flapping behind him, his crown glittering harshly in the winter sunlight.  
“You—boy—where are the records from last winter kept?”  
I stuttered something incomprehensible—probably “I’m not a sorcerer”—but pointed him in the right direction. I didn’t think he was listening anyways, so much as watching to where my finger would direct him.  
Morgana and Gwen came in sometimes—Morgana was quite a fan of those old romantic ballads and poems, and would often be seen flitting through the bookcases, her silken robes shimmering as they were flicked up by her shoes.  
But it was Arthur who came in the most—though by this time I had come to expect that.  
He came often during lunch, in between council meetings and knight’s training, or whatever it was that princes did.  
“Look at you, Merlin,” I’d hear, and my heart would leap in spite of myself. “Nose stuck in a book—I knew you’d belong here!”  
“Aye, sire—out of the way of bumble-heads like you,” I’d call back.  
And he’d round the corner of bookshelves, his face splitting into a smile. “Well, it’s true, you are rather studious—“ but no sooner had the flush heated my cheeks that he said, “And a good thing too, with twiggy arms like that!”  
Our banter had softened over the weeks, I couldn’t help but notice—it was peppered with backhanded compliments, and sly little sneaks of appreciation. I learned that Arthur found the combination of my dark hair and light eyes “strange and rare—“ but something in his tone told me those weren’t meant as insults. And I may have let it slip that I thought his hair was “blinding—put your blond mop away please.”  
It was a funny little dance we did. And I had to admit that I enjoyed it—maybe more than I should, being a sorcerer. Uther already wanted to kill me. How would he react to his son becoming friendly with the gangly scribe in the library?  
By Yule time, our meetings had gotten more and more coquettish. Arthur stood closer to my desk, leaned down further, whispered lower. Our eyes kept meeting, and our fingertips kept ‘accidently’ brushing. When we passed each other in the hallways—Arthur leading a bunch of knights, me carrying a stack of books—we’d share a knowing, secretive kind of smile.  
But I still knew that it would never get past that. I was a sorcerer, and a commoner. And Arthur was prince of Camelot. He had his pick of every princess—and prince—in the Isles.  
But I was still happy to find a reason to meet his gaze, and I was still happy when he met mine.  
So it was quite surprising to find him at the door to the physician’s solar that evening, when I returned from the library.  
“Ah! Merlin!” He said, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.  
“What—God! What’re you doing up here?”  
But then he put his finger to my lips and I realized that this would be one of our more taciturn rendezvous. Not that I could spoken if I wanted to—the soft skin of his fingertip against my mouth had shocked all the words right out of my head.  
He looked over my shoulder, then locked his eyes with mine. A fire burned in my chest.  
“I trust you’ve heard about all the preparations for the Yuletide festival,” he said in a hushed tone.  
I licked my lips nervously and tried to remember the English language. “Um—yes, I have. Big feast happening Christmas Eve, right?”  
Gaius had received an invitation two nights before—a lovely thing on thick cream paper with the Pendragon crest drawn in red ink.   
“Exactly,” Arthur said with a lopsided smile. He opened his mouth to say something else—lips forwards in anticipation of the word—when we heard the sound of footsteps down the hall.  
“Here,” he whispered, and tucked an envelope into my hand. And then, grinning—and blushing, oddly—he drew something out behind his back and, before I could even see it, thrust its base into my trouser pockets.  
“If they see you, say you were gathering them for décor,” he whispered softly, his breath warm and lovely against my skin. With a final glancing smile over his shoulder, he strode off around the corner, and I heard him exchange greetings to some guards.  
I stood beside the entryway to Gaius’s solar, a little breathless and more than a little confused.  
The thing in my pocket was nearly spilling out—upwards, like it was stiff was wood—so I yanked it out and looked at it.  
It was a little gathering of holly branches—a wintry bouquet. The berries glistened in the soft light of the hallway.  
I found feel heat rising out of my collar, all the way to the very tips of my ears.  
The guards’ footsteps were nearing, though, so I quickly opened the door to the solar and stepped inside.  
Gaius was out—he must’ve been at the market. I lit a candle, despite the faint glow of dusky light filtering through the window. I wanted to make sure I read the letter right.  
My hands trembled a bit as I opened the envelope, which surprised me a little. I’d received flowers before—surely one dopey show of endearment wouldn’t set me off the edge, would it?  
But it wasn’t just the gesture—it was the person who came along with it. And what a person, indeed…  
I shook my head to clear my thoughts. Steeling my nerves, I took a deep breath and unfolded the paper.  
It wasn’t a court-sent letter, like Gaius’s—it was the wrong stationary. There was no Pendragon crest on top, just plain parchment.  
This had been written by Arthur himself.  
My heart pounded in my chest, but I wouldn’t lose my nerve. I read further:  
Dear Merlin,  
It has been brought to my attention that not every employee of the Royal House of Camelot will be invited to the Yuletide festivities. Usually, scribes of the library do not attend the banquet.  
This year, though, the crown prince has decided that this is a silly rule, and should be changed.  
You must understand that the prince cannot tell this to the court, because there will be squabbling of whether or not it’s a silly rule, and if so who else should be invited, and all that rot.  
But it just so happens that the prince may or may not have accidently taken a spare invitation and tucked it away. So, enclosed, is your official invitation to the festivals. If anyone asks where you received it, tell them Gaius argued for you to come and help him tend to the inebriated—lord knows that ends up happening most years.  
The prince admits that he is looking forward to seeing you there.

I could feel my pulse in my ears. I checked the envelope—sure enough, folded along the bottom was the invitation.  
The prince of Camelot had personally invited me to spent Yuletide with him.  
Me, a scribe. A sorcerer. A nobody. The personal choice of Prince Arthur.  
I couldn’t have kept the grin off my face if I’d tried.

“Evening, Merlin? How was the library?” Gaius asked as he bustled through the door.  
I jumped up as if burned and quickly stuffed the letter in my pocket.  
“Um—good! Great! Lots of—um—books,” I stammered as I looked wildly around for somewhere to hide the holly berries.  
“Well, I bet that’s everyday, isn’t it?” Gaius said as he began to sort through what he’d gathered at the market. While his back was turned, I raced up to my room and threw the branches inside, fast as I could. I was aiming for my bed, but in the rush, they ended up skittering across the floor.  
I cringed, but there wasn’t any time to fix them.  
“Merlin, would you come help me prepare supper? I’ll need some chopped onions…”  
“Coming,” I said quickly, and fished out the letter. I tucked it back in its envelope and slipped it into my cupboard.  
“Merlin!” Gaius called.  
“Coming!” With a final glance at the bouquet, I bounded down the stairs and began to chop at the onions.  
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Gaius glaring at me.  
“What’s got you all red-faced? You’ve got high color—are you feeling all right?”  
“Yes—just a cold walk back,” I fibbed. “You know—these temperatures—my mother says I look like a tomato when I’m cold.”  
I was lying through my teeth, but if Gaius noticed, he let it slide. But I felt my cheeks burning all through dinner, wondering at the impossibility of it all.  
The impossibility of the fact that Arthur Pendragon had asked me out on a date.


	5. Christmas Eve Will Find Me/Where the Love Light Gleams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas Finale, and I did not hold back with the fluff.  
> Merlin's been given a private invitation to the Yuletide ceremony, but he's still not sure why Arthur's invited him, and what it means for the both of them. But damnit, he's going to find out.
> 
> Warnings:  
> Swearing? Drinking? Also domestic fluff, but no smut

It was a cold Christmas Eve—cold enough to slick the roads in ice, and creep into the very deepest reaches of the castle. Our breath frosted whenever we strayed away from the hearth, and even then, it was difficult to stave off the shivering.  
“Hell’s frozen over,” Hopkin moaned when I met up with him for lunch. “I dunno if the geese’ll ever come back.”  
“It’ll get warmer eventually,” I said, but it was hard to believe during such bitter cold. And I was one to talk—Gaius bound my hands up with spare rags to protect against frostbite, and I had extras stuffed in my boots to plug up any drafty holes.  
Geoffrey, at least, let me off early for the night. “The servants need all the help they can get—and we’d all be far better off down there, near the fires!”  
So all of the caste’s staff was ushered down to the servants’ quarters, where the counters were littered with fish scales. It was fast day, but the royal family wouldn’t be truly fasting—they’d be served geese and cheese, all drizzled in almond milk and served with thick, steaming slices of bread.  
Vegetables were being prepared for the feast tomorrow, so I was handed a knife and an apron and led over to a cutting board. By the time the piles of squash had been depleted, my fingers were stinging from the juice, which had irritated my dry winter skin.  
I felt lightheaded from the scent of mince pies cooking, and my stomach rumbled painfully. Some almond milk cheese—a paltry excuse for the real thing—was tossed over to us at the chopping station.  
“Oi, here’s dinner, lads!” The cook called, and all of us reluctantly grabbed our share.  
“Oh, lovely,” I said sarcastically. “Can’t wait to eat that rubbish.”  
“Oh, you won’t have to wait long for the better stuff!” One servant laughed. I gave him a funny look, so he explained, “We’ll be staying up for midnight, when it becomes Christmas. Then we’ll all be able to eat a bit of the real food—and we’ll be given our fill at the banquet tomorrow, as well!”  
The cheese wasn’t much to go on until midnight, but it was a comfort to know that I’d be given a mince pie once the bells tolled. We worked on into the evening, long after the sun ducked down below the hills and candles were lit in the overhead lamps.  
The servants—and me—were left to season the fish and plate the royal family’s dinners. The cooks were busy frying up venison and chicken and duck and a thousand other things I didn’t even recognize, all for once the clock struck midnight. There were potatoes sizzling in cauldrons, along with our chopped squash and shredded meat, all bubbling in a thick chicken stock. It was all a spectacular spread, but hard work to manage, and it was an impossible workplace. Between the roaring fires and the drafty windows, it fluctuated violently between bitter cold and broiling head. Besides, there was no room—at one point, one of the cooks tripped over another’s foot and a whole pig went flying across the room. It was three long hours to midnight by the time the royal family was served, and when the time came, we were ready for the break. We all sat in the dark, dusky kitchen, huddled by the stoves and munching on whatever scraps we could find. It was ages before a pageboy was sent for us.  
“The priest will be starting soon.”  
He led us all up the cold, winding staircase to the throne room. Before I entered, I was pulled to the side.  
“Geoffrey’s assistant,” the guard said, and I held out my invitation to prove it. He nodded and handed me a tunic—uniform for a staff member of the court of Camelot. I felt oddly posh as I put it on—the cool blue and red would mark me above the servants, and I felt a bit like a wolf in sheep’s clothing after sweating it out in the kitchen with them all evening.  
I pulled it on all the same, though, and was escorted to the throne room’s entrance. I had to squint for a moment when I got in—after the gloomy darkness of the clammy stone hallways, the banquet hall was stunning. Hundreds of candles sat in elaborate candelabras, and even more hung over us in the chandeliers. Dozens of tapestries stretched across the walls, their golden embroidery glittering in the candlelight. Every dish, goblet, and napkin holder glistened and sparkled. The whole scene was enough to take my breath away.  
And there, at the other end of the hall stood the royal family, as shining and golden as the riches that surrounded them. The three of them wore circlets, and the very best of the season’s fashion—Morgana in silk the color of pine, Uther in a jacket lined with snowy sheepskin, and Arthur…  
Draped in a scarlet cloak, and the same color high in his cheeks and rising on his lips. His hair was gilded in the candlelight, and his skin was like sunlight. He was stunning, plain and simple.  
And I was right properly stunned. I actually stopped in the doorway for a moment, mouth agape, like a gawping patron at the circus. But then the servants behind me shoved, eager to get into the warmth of the hall, and I gathered myself. The air was thick with the smell of ale and rum and spiced wine, but I knew that wasn’t why my knees were wobbly, and it was ridiculous to swoon about like a total ninny.  
“Him,” I heard, and turned to see Arthur pointing at me. A pageboy clambered through the crowd and pulled me forward, until I was standing across from Arthur, just the table separating us.  
“As my personal guest for the evening,” he said, his voice like syrup, “you have a seat there, at the table.”  
A seat at the table, near the royal family. Me, a peasant. A sorcerer.  
A little lightheaded, I nodded and was led over to my seat. Sure enough, there was a little place card that read, in flowing calligraphy, Merlin of Ealdor – Assistant Scribe.   
Arthur must have slipped it in at the last minute, to avoid any fuss from the court. I blushed furiously at the thought of him going through all this trouble just to invite me.  
“Merlin,” another voice called. I looked up to see Morgana, poking her head around Uther to smirk at me. “Did you get my ribbon?”  
I blushed even further, and even Arthur turned a bit pink. Morgana leaned back, laughing.  
Commotion began at the entrance to the hall, though, and snapped me out of my embarrassment. A priest came down the lane, flanked by several monks. They began to sing—a chilling stain of music that rose up through the room and bounded back off the ceiling. All through the song, the priest thumbed lovingly at his Bible and did a private little blessing of the royal family, dragging his thumb over each of their noses.  
And all through the song, I watched out of the corner of my eye as Arthur kneeled to meet the priest’s trembling hand. As his eyes closed, and his golden eyelashes beat against his cheek. As he rose back up, cloak rippling, back arching and straightening, his hair glistening as he stood.  
The priest turned back to the crowd and began a long, rambling service in Latin. I struggled to find words I recognize—Deus, certainly, and Nativitatis—but soon I was soon completely lost.  
The service dragged on and on, the priest’s voice buzzing in my ears until it became a constant drone. Finally, half an hour to midnight, we all joined hands and began to sing carols. Snow streamed past the windows, but the outside seemed like another world compared to the glowing warmth and comfort of the hall.  
After a rising go at Gaudete, the priest held up his hands, and we all fell silent. We waited a moment—then two—  
The church bells began to chime midnight, and we all roared and cheered.  
Uther held his arms open. “Happy Christmas, to all of Camelot!”  
The kitchen staff rushed in with trays of food, and people immediately started stuffing themselves. It was a battle to get to the platters, and there was no fuss over presentation—just beef and chicken and beans, all hastily plopped on a plate and drizzled in mustard, but I didn’t mind. The meat was so tender it nearly melted in my mouth.  
It was nearly an hour before the serving crew began to pack up—there would be Christmas dinner in less than 24 hours, and we needed to get sleep if we were going to make enough food for everyone.  
As I stood to leave, however, I felt fingertips against my wrist—a gentle kiss of a touch.  
“Merlin,” Arthur said softly. “If you’d join me…”  
“Of course,” I replied without even thinking. My rapidly beating heart made the decision for me.  
He led me by the hand out of the door in the back of the hall—where only court members had access. We went down a hall, then turned to a door which, when opened, proved to be a drafty staircase.  
“Where exactly are we going?” I asked, my breath fogging before me as we climbed.  
Arthur turned over his shoulder to grin, still striding up the steps, his cloak fluttering behind him. “It’s a Christmas surprise, Merlin.”  
I rolled my eyes, but he had already turned back around. The staircase ended, and Arthur unhooked a lantern off the wall and opened a thick wooden door. We were met with a blast of wind.  
I turned to Arthur. “Are you mad?! We’ll freeze our toes off!”  
“Don’t be such a girl,” he said, and unbuckled his cloak.  
“Oh, no you don’t—“  
But the cloak was clipped under my chin, the cloth warm and soft against my skin. I shivered into it, in spite of myself.  
“Is this the Christmas surprise, my liege?” I said with as much sass as I could muster. “Avoiding frostbite by sharing a single cloak?”  
Arthur smiled and gently guided me out the door. For a quick moment, it was hard to see where we were—we seemed both inside and outside at once, the wind whipping around our heads but still and motionless around our legs.  
But then I got it, and laughed. “You’ve brought me on a parapet, Arthur?”  
In the lantern’s wavering light, Arthur blushed.   
“Church bells chiming, snow falling down…” I had to stop because I was laughing. “You’re a hopeless romantic, Arthur Pendragon. I bet you even read those romance poems your sister’s so fond of.”  
He reddened further. “Maybe a bit, for inspiration.”  
“Ho!” I had only been poking fun, but this was too good to be true. “You didn’t even like the food at the Sun, did you?”  
“Of course not,” he snorted. “It was shit half the time.”  
“And you came,” I teased, “just to see a commoner like me.”  
Arthur was approximately the color of a tomato. “You surprised me,” he said will all the dignity he could muster. “I liked being surprised by you.”  
I was on a roll by then. “Didn’t even have the guts to hand me that bouquet—stuffed it in my pocket like a right idiot—“  
Arthur laughed in spite of himself. “Look, I panicked, okay? Would this make up for it?”  
In a grandiose gesture, he whipped something out of his pocket and held it over our heads.  
A plant, its pale berries glistening in the dim light.  
Mistletoe.  
Now I was the one blushing.  
Arthur stepped closer, the tip of his nose brushing mine. I could feel his breath, warm and lovely, against my lips.  
“I suppose,” I whispered shakily, “that this would begin to make up for your ridiculously romantic pursuits…”  
And, with that, Arthur ran his hand through my hair, his fingers trailing along the back of my neck, and tipped my face into his. Our lips touched—a tiny little change in motion, the most fractional of space between them disappearing. And yet it sent a bolt of lightening through me, all the same.  
I found my hands cradling his face, rubbing the pads of my thumbs against his stubble and wondering at the incredible feeling of him—the softness of his lips and skin, the tickle of his bangs against my own forehead, the rapid rise and fall of his chest against mine as he sucked in his breath.  
It was a long, glorious moment before his mouth came off of mine. My lips were puffy with warmth, and the snow seemed out of place compared to the fire that was burning through my blood.  
“And I’ll suppose,” Arthur said in a husky whisper, “I’ll be seeing you at the Christmas banquet this evening as well?”  
I laced his fingers between mine. “Oh, I have a feeling you’ll be seeing a lot more of me.”  
“I have no complaints with that,” he replied with a grin, and our lips met again. His mouth was warm, and his skin, and his cloak—everything was filled with so much light, I hardly even felt the cold.

 

Coda – 8 Years Later  
“Happy Christmas, Merlin.”  
I rolled over lazily until I found his warmth and nuzzled against him.  
“Merlin,” he said with a soft laugh.  
“It is midwinter,” I told him, my voice muffled in the sheets. “You cannot convince me to get out of bed right now.”  
I felt the mattress vibrate as Arthur’s chest convulsed in a laugh. “Your priorities never fail to amaze me, Merlin.”  
“Aye—commoner’s sense of survival. It’s what’s kept you alive these past eight years,” I told him as I nestled my face into the curve of his neck.  
“And I thank you for that. But I’m sure the court will want to see their King and Consort.”  
I opened my eyes—or one eye, anyways—to glare at him. “My official title is Royal Sorcerer. The world does not revolve around you, Arthur Pendragon.”  
“My apologies,” Arthur laughed again. It was a wonderful sound to hear, clear as bells in the morning air.  
And he was warm, anyways. I curled up closer against him.  
He sighed and shook his head, but a smile played on his lips. “I suppose we can wait five more minutes.”  
“That’s better,” I told him, and draped my arm over him. We lay there for a moment, still and peaceful, fitting together perfect as puzzle pieces.  
“Arthur,” I said softly.  
“Mmh?”  
“Happy Christmas to you too.”  
Arthur smiled. “Hopeless romantic.”


End file.
